Dancing With Devils
by Zerbinetta
Summary: For the brilliant charade of a savior in the form of a mage, there was always a price. A broken templar must learn the steps in order to determine what it may be. Post-Blight, Cullen fic.


I promised there would be more Cullen fanfiction and here it is. There's so many stories out there dealing with his torture during the Broken Circle quest, so I've decided not to delve too deeply into that part. Instead, this story takes place eighteen months after that, with the Blight over and the Circle saved. If you finished the game with the mages alive, you must know that Cullen goes completely off his rocker, kills a few mage apprentices and then escapes from the tower, becoming a wanted serial killer. Yep, I'm going with this angle.

For the purposes of this story, I'm using my elf mage character, Nimue Surana, the protagonist of almost all of my DA stories. Only the Seasons one-shot might have any connection or relevance to this one – there isn't any continuity in that.

Some disturbing content, perhaps, some mild lime (first time doing that, so bear with me, but it was necessary for the scene to work). The title is taken from a wonderful theme from Rurouni Kenshin, which suits this piece quite well. Do listen to it, if you can find it on youtube. In fact, the entire RuroKen soundtrack is awesome.

Reviews are entirely appreciated!

**o.O.o**

**Dancing With Devils**

**o.O.o**

Magic exists to serve man, never to rule over him. The first words every templar must remember, the first commandment hammered into the head of each apprentice mage the moment they enter the Circle tower.

All lies. Magic was a force of evil in the world, capable of corrupting each and every mind. Its very presence meant instability, wavering, doubt. And therefore no mage could be left to walk free, to present a danger to the world. They had to be slain in order to protect the world and the mages themselves from destruction and doom.

Such was the truth and single rule he had been living by for the past year and a half. It seemed longer, with the way he lived each day as if it were the last, always wary that they might finally catch him and bring him to their warped ideals of justice. They being his former brethren, the templars.

Two years ago, he had been one of them, without any doubt that he would spend the rest of his life in the tower of the Circle of magi, guarding its inhabitants while pitying them for their fate. To be caged for life due to circumstances they could neither choose nor control had seemed a fate worth utmost condolences; at least he had learned to come to terms with his life through prayer.

Except for her.

No amount of repeated prayers could wipe the image of her from his mind. Whatever the strength of his devotion to the Maker, he would have hesitated to strike her down, had she turned into an abomination during her Harrowing. At times, he would wonder if the Maker had felt such things when realizing His love for Andraste, a mortal; but this was blasphemy of the highest order, especially because he was merely a templar, one of many, expendable and small and unimportant, and she was a mage, the embodiment of what the Prophetess had fought against. Even if – in his eyes, at least – her beauty and virtue and goodness could have equaled that of the silent marble statue in the tower's chapel.

He had loved the sound of her voice more than Andraste's words, repeated by a thousand voices, and that was the start of his sin. It continued so until she had left the Circle… and beyond.

And then, demons had rained down from the windows of the tower, taking the mages for their own, caging his brethren and implanting in his world the illusion of everything that she was being his.

Yet she had saved the Circle, returning to save the traitors and monsters, standing firm by their side and ignoring his warnings of them being corrupted and ready to strike at them all. And then she had left, like the wind, never to return as long as she could help it.

While she had been present, some part of his previous self had restrained him from doing what he now understood to be right. Whatever this new consciousness might try to tell him, he loved her still, even hating her as he did for sparing those that didn't deserve it, for being what she was. Once she left…

…once she left, whatever part of him remaining devoted to her vanished without a trace, to follow in her steps like an obedient hound till the end of time. And he, free from this lie, had chosen to take justice into his own hands. After all, if heroes chose to leave things half-finished, it was up to the mundane, like him, perhaps, to take the reins.

But he couldn't do more than slay a few and flee, unless he wished to have his life ended by the few templars left. Nothing, not even Greagoir's words (which had so often given him reason to believe that prayer and penance could still save his soul) could assuage him. He even dared believe that the Maker had given him this enlightenment, an awakening to the true nature of the taint of this world.

And, by killing mages, he could do his part in some small way and protect at least part of the innocent world around them all.

Yet he had never forgotten _her_, no matter how far he had to run in order to continue with his task or how many mages fell beneath his sword. And today, his path had brought him close to the place where she apparently resided… and the foolish boy he thought he had purged from his heart couldn't resist. He had to see her, for reasons beyond the hated infatuation.

After all, she had aided a maleficar's escape before leaving the Circle tower. Even if she hadn't been present during the massacre at the hands of demons and abominations, there was the potential for corruption even in her (_no!_) and had to be cleansed… or, at the very least, he had to make certain that she was still in possession of her senses and wasn't about to fall.

His self-disgust at the small spark of jubilation in his blackened heart at the thought of seeing her didn't change his determination. If she had fallen, he would slay her, even though it was more likely that he would perish in the attempt. He would surely die if he wouldn't see her again, at least one final time.

It wasn't that difficult to locate her. The hero of Ferelden, as the minstrels sang far and wide, had accepted an advisory position at the royal court in Denerim, but was rarely present in the city itself. Instead, she had returned to the Grey Wardens that were now her people and resided in Amaranthine, leading the order and serving as the resident Arlessa in all but name. There were whispers, though, that that would be changing, as soon as the king managed to convince the nobility that saving the land from the Blight counted as a reason to elevate an elf among the ranks of the nobility, if only the Chantry would stop barking as well.

Amaranthine, once governed by the Howes, had been transformed into both a training ground for the Wardens and a place of peace accompanied by vigilance. And, at the heart of the city, was the castle; a fortress of stone but not a prison, now no longer named after the noble family that had resided there, but simply after the coastal town itself.

Getting into the town itself had been a danger, but he had learned to avoid notice when it suited him – which was most of the time. As a wanted criminal – murderer, they called him, those of little wisdom - he could hardly come close to any inhabited area and proclaim himself. But he could listen, which was his great fortune.

The Warden-Commander, as she was now known (even though everyone with the tiniest shred of affection for the Wardens referred to her as Our Grey Lady), often left the castle to explore the surrounding wilderness, either alone or with only a small entourage. And when she entered the town, respect greeted her at every turn, whispers following each of her steps.

If entering the town was out of the question, waiting for her to come to the forest was the only possible alternative. He spent several days lying in wait, just observing, surviving in the wild with an ease that had come to him with time. And then, after four days of watching the castle towers loom over the treetops, imagining where she might be and what she could be doing, she came to him.

The arrival of a foreign presence was something he was now attuned to, in the manner of beasts, perhaps. Certainly he was that to other humans, not that he cared any longer. But he had always been able to distinguish _her_ footsteps in a crowd… and this instinct hadn't faded even with time, it seemed.

He almost didn't recognize her as she was.

The pale, robe-clad mageling with eyes of ice and a smile that had lit the fire of both passion and madness in his heart (unintentionally on both counts) had changed profoundly. The carefully-combed hair that reminded him of the sunlight she herself so rarely experienced was now flying wild around her face, only barely bound by a thin braid or two. It was also longer than he remembered, but still within the practical length she so preferred. Snow-white shades of her skin had given away to a healthier rosy sheen. And her eyes…

Even from afar, he could see the shine in them; feel the flame they had unleashed upon the shackles of his piety when he had first seen them. But never before had there been such utter careless happiness within her gaze, recklessly displayed for the entire world to see. There was nothing holding her in check, no need to conceal anything of her true nature. And she made full use of that opportunity… even to eyes less experienced than Cullen's with the art of reading her expression and recognizing her current moods, ever-changing like the clouds, it would have been obvious that the young woman was quite shamelessly wallowing in bliss.

The demon clad in her form had been able to replicate, to mirror, but never show the true extent of an emotion. From the face that haunted his dreams even nowadays, something deeper shone, past the hum of adrenaline and the sheen of desire.

Forbidden. A templar must never be fooled into believing that a mage is nothing more than what they see; a man, a woman, a child. The curse eternal coursing through their veins is the defining factor, the one unchangeable cage of their existence.

The words and teachings only echoed in his mind as a distant memory nowadays; he didn't need such justifications anymore. All mages were bombs waiting to explode; if they didn't, it was only because the time wasn't yet right, or there was something greater at work there. Even if they resisted now, it was always possible that they wouldn't later on, be it tomorrow, next week or in years. It was a risk one couldn't take any longer.

But she… she…

Her he hated beyond all measure, for opening his eyes to the truth of the world. But seeing her again, alive and warm and vibrant, even his determination was halted.

This was her, without any kind of mask or inhibition. All he desired, nothing he deserved, that which should but mustn't be destroyed, for the sake of the world.

She wasn't alone.

At her side, there was a man, towering above her by only a few inches, of darker skin and her own race. Not only did everything about him suggest utter comfort in his own skin, but there was the definite sense of belonging in his step, as if there was nothing more natural than being chosen to walk by her side and looking at her with all that he himself had for so long concealed.

They passed through the wilderness with no sound other than the rustle of the grass beneath their feet, heading towards the coast. Out of sight of the castle, beyond the trees, they apparently sought the privacy that even a castle couldn't provide. But he had no reason to allow the despicable jealousy poisoning his blood even now take over; they weren't coming there for the purpose of intimacy.

Both were lightly armored and even she had a sword where there had usually been a mage's staff. If not for his own memories of the magic swirling around from her fingertips, she might as well have appeared a warrior.

Lies, as was everything about her.

The sun was going to set in about half an hour, which was an odd time for weapons training, if this was indeed the intention.

She had brought a shield with her, but set it against the last tree before the end of the very forest. From one of her pockets, she drew a thin ribbon and tied back the upper portion of her hair. The vivid memory of her brushing the golden strands out of her face resurfaced, as did the twitching impulse he had always managed to conquer, the impulse to do it himself.

The man's eyes followed her every move with the light smile of those without a care in the world.

"Do you promise to play nice this time around?" she asked once her brief task was done and the sword she had brought was now in her small hands, a sight out of place. The armor clinging to her skin underlined every line of her body as she assumed a battle-ready stance with practiced movements. It was reminiscent of the vision of her through the desire demon's perception coloring it. It almost made him sick, for various reasons.

The man with her was smiling in a manner of a spider that had successfully captured a careless fly, but somehow made it seem like an expression of adoration, despite the weapons in his hands. "I make no oaths I cannot keep, amora." The foreign word left a bitter taste in him,not least of all because he felt he understood even if he didn't.** "**If you wanted the knightly code of conduct, you shouldn't have asked a rogue to teach you how to wield a sword."

And even though she rolled her eyes, even though her stance suggested that she already knew how to dance with a blade in her hand, she kept smiling in a manner he had never quite seen in her before. "I meant that no underhanded tactics of distraction are permissible, because they wouldn't work in an actual battle."

Liquid heat flowing through the contact of two heated bodies. A touch everywhere and nowhere and nearing ecstasy yet not quite _enough_. Again, this was what the demons had been promising him while wearing her skin, her form (but never her smile) and what others might have figuratively called a demon inside him surged again, raging against its cage. She had been pure, a virgin sacrifice to the Circle, to the Grey Wardens, and now she had tarnished the pedestal his younger, more naïve self had put her on by fraternizing with another man.

Where once it might have brought crushing despair, now, it brought only rage and more of the purple swirl of a descent into what fools called madness. Because he could _see_ it; the demons had ensured that the vision of her flesh (or the way he pictured it, at least) was never far from his thoughts, especially when he was unguarded, such as asleep.

"What underhanded tactics might you be referring to?" her lover retorted with his best innocent tone and a coy look that had no intention of concealing anything of this lie. All hatred he felt was now focused on this creature, not only because he had had – was having – the only precious thing in the world, but also because he might destroy her if these fornications continued, allowing her emotions to spiral out of control and… "You'll have to demonstrate, I fear."

And her smile never wavered, shining on, soothing and captivating as always, especially after being deprived of its radiance for so long. "I'll have to consider that."

For several seconds, both combatants were utterly still. Then, no sooner than a carefully calculated number of waves hit the nearby shore and retreated back into the increasingly darker waters, they both _lunged_ and there was a mighty clash of steel.

When he had seen her last, she had known nothing of blades. Aside from the thin little alchemy knife all mages were taught to wield, a weapon of any kind had been foreign to her hands. Yet the steps of her form were certain, practiced, and there was a certain artistry to the movement. What struck the eye at once was that she never once used her magic. Not even the slightest spark of power flew from her free hand, or from the one holding the blade.

Despite her being outclassed, obviously. There were moments when the man almost took her head off, but either she recovered a second before the blade could make contact or he saw that there wasn't anything stopping him from doing so except his own will, which always did. The man didn't fight like a soldier or even like a templar; his own body possessed a mixture of grace and dexterity that was meant for swift, precise strikes intended not to subdue or disarm, but kill in a limited number of strikes.

It was an underhanded form of combat, but one better suited to _her_, with her lithe limb and careful footing…

Dancing girls far and wide would have envied the artistry of the motions and the sensuality of the deadly dance… or perhaps it was just the non-disillusioned boy who had almost committed heresy for her sake trying to fight his way to the surface to once more see her, drink in every curve of her body and try to conceal the lust the slightest gesture from her ignited in his body, like a spreading poison.

So enamored they were with the battle and each other, neither of the elves noticed him, even though he was certain the grinding of his teeth had to be audible to all the forest creatures.

"You still hold the blade much too rigidly." They never stopped, but her lover apparently still was in the role of a teacher. This time, he allowed her to see the moment where he almost took her arm off and gave her the chance to retaliate. The second time he tried, she was ready. "There is no cause to fear for your life now and you might injure yourself if you remain as tense as you are."

"All my practice was spent fighting for my life." Her hair was coming undone, a halo of sunlight framing the goddess of the battlefield. But it was her voice that he remembered from his nightmares, breathy and gasping out the words, even if these were a distant call from the things the demons had spoken in her tone. "It's difficult to let go of learned habits."

"Be gentle with the weapon." She lunged again, more carefully, measuring the force of her blow with greater focus. It cost her some speed, but at least her white-knuckled grip on the blade had lessened. The man parried it with ease, but allowed her to continue with her onslaught. "To employ the over-used cliché, it is now part of your arm. If you strain it overly, it will hardly aid you in battle."

Again, she attacked, her hair streaming behind her like a banner, only to almost overbalance when her blow was completely avoided and she was forced to whirl around to parry yet another attack.

"You're going too fast again!"

"Not at all." Her lover grinned widely, but pulled no punches. Deflecting two weapons with one was a chore, especially when the coordination of one's opponent was so superior. He had never fought anyone who wielded such a combination of weapons, but the dutiful templar in him saw the many underhanded blows that had no place in a practice duel… yet this man employed them naturally. "You can match my current speed if you allow yourself to relax. I can see your every move this way."

"Focus!" she barked out, attacking once again. Her speed seemed to double; she had been luring him in with the sloppy blows, allowing him to think she was about to be finished. The rogue parried her strike, but it was a much closer call than the previous strikes.

And he only laughed when his balance was back, going toe-to-toe with her, despite her increasing skill. "Oh-ho, good one!" A final swing caused her to jump back a step or two, gasping for breath. Her tutor gave his weapons a twirl that could have seemed like excessive showing-off, but it also served to help him return to a starting attack position. "Now, come and attack me for real. No need to restrain yourself on my account, amora." Again, that despicable word, like poison sliding down his spine with the laziness of honey. "I certainly won't hold back."

She, too, raised her weapon and resumed her stance. "Do you ever?"

"That would be an insult to your skill… and your considerable charm on a different battlefield." And his tone spoke of many such fights, with victories aplenty for each not necessarily opposing side. Again, for several beats, they faced each other, and then, with a cry of a gasp, she attacked, matching her speed to that which he had displayed previously.

Within a few strikes, she was on the defensive, ducking to avoid one blade, allowing her sword to collide with the other. But her focus had returned and both combatants seemed to be taking things seriously now, holding their ground. Two steps forward, one back. Until, finally, one of the blades sliced her glove near a finger, presenting the rogue with the opportunity to position one blade just to her side in a place where a most painful paralyzing and potentially killing blow could be landed, knocking the sword out of her hand with a strike just a fraction harder than the others.

She froze, an animal sensing the predator was a step away from tearing their throat out. The man was smiling at her with a dark but not lethal intent and perhaps it would have been more merciful to _him_ if this lover of hers indeed intended to kill her, because even self-flagellation seemed like the brush of a feather against one's skin in comparison to the torture of watching another stand close enough to her to caress her lips with his breath.

"Do you surrender, my Commander?" It wasn't the relationship of a predator and prey, if it had ever been; this was possessiveness, desire between beasts tied to one another by bonds thicker than blood. He had to close his eyes to drown out the ringing in his ears, embodied in the red he still saw, roaring in his soul like a wounded monster.

"Perhaps just this once…" And her voice, the sound from a waking nightmare, was thick with desire, except it was a thousand times stronger, because it was _real_. Months ago, he wouldn't have believed her capable of such seductiveness (not intentionally, at least) if not as the figment of a demon's fantasy. Perhaps the abominations had portrayed her more accurately than he had believed, with the way she surrendered into a sweat-stained kiss with all the hunger of those mirages. The only difference was that she wasn't the instigator this time. "I would have gotten you if I could use magic, though."

The slightest hint of a child's whine in her voice drew a deep chuckle from her lover's lips, a sound that would have shaken many impressionable hearts to the core. Like a snake, the man remained wrapped around her without fail, even as he holstered the no longer necessary weapons and returned hers to the pile of their belongings nearby.

"Now, now, a small lesson in humility is beneficial even to a mighty archdemon-slayer. And I am most glad that you aren't allowed to set my hair on fire, or some such trick."

Her laughter once more proved to be the only thing capable of temporarily assuaging the beast within the hidden templar, threatening to break out of its cage. "I would be careful not to aim that high, never fear."

"How considerate you are. You don't need that kind of magic to make me burn for you." Hands around her waist, slithering lower and higher, like a blind man attempting to memorize every crook and crevice of something belonging to him alone. And she allowed it, as if it were so. "Does it hurt somewhere? Shall I kiss it better?"

"You did manage to bust my glove, apparently, though I don't think it'll feel better after a kiss. You might have to actually apologize to it."

Instead of complying with the glove's potential wishes, the man took the raised hand and gently pulled off the now destroyed glove. They could get as many as they liked, apparently, because he simply threw it away without any consideration. Before she could voice any kind of protest, he was inspecting her knuckles and carefully located the minor cut along her index finger. Silently still, he brought the slightly injured hand up to his lips and, in a gesture that would have shocked any proper Chantry-educated philistine, licked the length of the small wound.

Before she could protest, the rise and fall of her breasts sped up by a fraction, because he had placed the finger in his mouth and was apparently sucking on it. It was one way of preventing infection, effective despite its erotic undertone, and the man obviously took pleasure in watching her slightly labored breathing and surprised eyes.

"You've already had your victory today; the retribution is unnecessary." Her voice was shakier than ever, losing every trace of practiced confidence.

With one final suckle, her pleased lover returned her hand to her, but claimed her waist once more, as if he had never excluded it from his possession.

"Shame on you, thinking the worst of me when here I am, looking out for your good health." It wasn't a lie, not entirely, but he made no effort to disguise what their observer had kept hidden and building up for years and years, believing that only prayer could grant release. This man didn't waste any time with such delusions, nor had he any intention of doing so. A viper and a scheming fox in one beast, his leer remained sated but not yet satisfied. "Speaking of victory, do I get a prize for winning the duel?"

This was the moment when the woman he had thought he knew would have spluttered, laughed or been outraged. But the Warden-Commander, this new demon in each but the most literal sense, allowed herself a thoughtful expression just faintly tinted with whatever she felt for the man. "Maybe. That depends entirely on what kind of prize you're after."

"Well…" He had her backed up against a tree now, almost, but with enough room for his hands to roam wherever they wished. Where a demon would have invited further, her response was to delve her fingers into his hair when he took to assaulting her neck with his lips. Both their hands blindly (but entirely too precisely) made a move towards where they supposed the bindings of each other's armor were. "I'm sure we can come up with something that will be to mutual satisfaction."

He couldn't watch this, but the demon reigning superior in his own heart forced him to watch. Look, it was saying. Look and see and notice, fool. You lost her; you never had her to begin with, but now she is claimed. As you once saw only her, she is blind to everything else, including you.

The demons hadn't replicated her movements perfectly in any way when they had assumed her form, but every moan coming from her slender throat was tantalizingly familiar to him. The man had managed to bypass the bindings of her armor and cast the thin sweat-soaked shirt she wore underneath it aside to allow his mouth access to her breasts. He had only ever seen anyone arch so much in pain, during possession, or in the horrid visions of wicked taint and unreal fabrications.

"On the condition that you're forfeiting the formal bragging rights." Her voice was no longer her own, but that of the demon, and even her movements began to resemble it as she attempted to practically claw her way past her lover's armor, drawing a moan from him when her hands finally managed to gain access to skin, shameless and sweeter than sin.

It took even him a moment to recover, but there wasn't any hesitation present, only need, as he pulled at the remains of her obstructive clothing. "Certainly, if you make it worth my while. And there are means of convincing you…"

He couldn't bear to look, yet the demon wouldn't let him look away. The boy that still loved her, despite knowing of the extent of his own sin felt a rush of heat pooling up beneath his stomach when, for a moment, he glimpsed the soft bounce of her breasts in the middle of this assault without any counterattack. The templar in him, hardened by the experience (_broken_, she would whisper with pity if she knew, but she saw only her elven lover, except for the seconds when her eyes shut tightly in a vain attempt to contain any part of her pleasure) saw the continued rise of a demon, the similarities between the illusion and the current reality.

"We haven't yet chosen the terms…" But her words didn't match the movements of her mouth, which were strictly against the lips of the man in her embrace, the uninhibited movement of her hands against his body or the sharp intake of breath when retribution for her boldness came. Not sinking against the fingers moving against her was impossible in her current position, even when allowed to lower herself to the ground due to her own buckling knees.

"My terms are always the same." _He_ was close to shattering simply by witnessing as much, yet this man didn't die of bliss and blasphemy, struck down by the very Maker for such sins. For them, this was but one night of many, an eternity of a damned existence in a demon's arms, each instance paid in bestial moans that were scratching viciously at every shred of restraint he possessed. "You and I, hand-to-hand combat, with only the sweat of our bodies to separate us. Everyone wins this way…"

She didn't have the strength to respond, her eyes wide, but whatever her hands did when she regained the slightest measure of self-control leveled the playing field once again. They nearly tumbled to the ground, ignoring the slippery soil, the sand and whatever discomfort any of those things might bring; nothing existed to them in the world but the other. Limbs entwined, the very sweat of their bodies mingled as the final remains of clothing were discarded and all that was left were roaming hands, tongues sliding against lips and skin both and the incoherent sounds escaping them, filled with more meaning than any flat proclamations of desire or love.

If he could move – and he wasn't certain his limbs were up to the task, despite the monumental strength his own rage gave him – what would he do? Slay the man for the defilement of all that was good in this world? But that was wrong; she was a demon of desire, a creature feeding on hopes and dreams with her illusions. Slay them both? Even now, purified by pain and strengthened by suffering, he couldn't. He hated her for this weakness she inspired; this inability to do what was right and rid the world of this most cunning form of evil.

Then the demon grinded her hips against the condemned after allowing him this claim on her, and the dance continued, to his own horror and envy and disgust, with muffed cries, frantic caresses and kisses that would have undone his sanity, if given to him, if he possessed any today.

This was the living embodiment of sin, a stain on the Maker's creation. And if it could shake even his resolution, if couldn't be allowed to continue.

Duty was unchangeable, the one thing still tying him to this world. He had lost his chance to gain her love forever, which meant that nothing but duty mattered any longer. He would kill her in the height of passion, the only time when he could be stronger than her, and look into her eyes, make her gaze at him with the passion she had so easily and wholly given to the undeserving, even if it was a weapon meant to bring them into submission.

But his weapons were blades and faith, not stealth and caution. Colored by rage, stained by despair and shaken by uncertainty, he wouldn't have succeeded in his task even given the opportunity to sneak closer to them. He would have wavered upon seeing her, which would have given her the opportunity to strike and destroy him.

What could have perhaps eased his mind on this account was that he was never given the chance to strike. He had overlooked one factor, which undid his plan before it could be thwarted by the nemesis he still lusted after.

After several careless movements in the foliage, there were fangs and claws around his leg, biting and scratching and tearing, and, before he knew it, he was on the ground, a giant mabari warhound perched atop him. The dog always accompanied his mistress into the wild, even if she didn't ask for the company, as a precaution and friend both in one. When she left with her mate, that was twice as necessary, according to the dog himself, because the elf was apparently very intent on breaking past the so-called infertility of the Grey Wardens and produce mage-puppies with his mistress.

Seeing an unknown human with darkness and doom streaming off him in waves of putrid scent raise a sword with the intent to harm his mistress was cause enough for the warhound to intervene. He knew nothing of the history between mage and templar; and if he did, he wouldn't have cared too much. Anyone who threatened his mistress without reason (or with it, even) was a risk to be eliminated, especially if they didn't seem strong enough to have to interrupt the ongoing mating.

It took several bites and tears only. The human didn't scream, peculiarly. The sword in his hand clunked to the ground softly, but the snarling movements of his hands were more akin the mabari's own kin than those of the human pack. It didn't matter, in the end.

_She_ never found out, just as she hadn't seen the feelings the dead templar had so fiercely fought against. In his final instant, he didn't curse her for bringing about his death as well as his doom, but tried to feel the relief of being able to say to the Maker that he had fought, that he had repented, that he had intended to slay the demons of the world, but circumstances had intervened, so perhaps he could be forgiven for the sickness still spreading through him, more fatal than the darkspawn taint.

Yet the sound of her pleasure, her freedom, filled his ears, mixed with the peak of her lover's passion as the world died for him, the final echo of a mocking laugh by demons long gone.

The Maker didn't see. And if he did, he didn't care. Because, in the grand scheme of things (_if there was one_, the demons laughed) his vision was pointless, without any true strength behind it. He would have nothing from her; not her smile, not her love, not her body… and not even pity for his demise.

She was a demon, after all, and felt no pity for those who couldn't play the game. But the man who could dance with her, aware of or oblivious to her bestial nature, he would be given everything.

She had been his life, once, his blasphemous soul knew. That she would be his death was only natural. And so, in the last instant, he doubted, and somewhere, the demons laughed.


End file.
